Soul of a Dragon
by Chalybeous
Summary: "Happily ever after": three lies for the price of one. They had fought Forsworn and Draugr and Vampires. Still, it was hard for Gerhild and Vorstag to find anything bright and hopeful in their future. But after all they'd been through, they were certain of one thing: they'd face Fate together. Final book in my Skyrim saga. Rated M for smut, language, gore.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: w****elcome to the final installment of my Gerhild/Vorstag saga! OMG This has blown into something so huge… 8O**

*****ahem*****

**As with the other stories, this is rated M, mostly for smuttiness, some violence and gore, and lots of language.**

**I would suggest you read the other stories, before reading this one (naturally, as I'm kinda proud of my writing, but also because a lot of stuff happens, and you might be a little lost at the start of this one if you haven't read the first two).**

**Also, if you're on AO3, I'm rewriting the stories, a little more graphic and a lot more smutty ;D (Explicit ratings apply) You can find them there under the same story names, or under my pen name of Chalybeous (Chalybeousite).**

**And, as always and ever, thank you for Following/ Favoriting/ Reviewing! Please, enjoy…**

**Chapter One**

Two riders moved through the high grasses of the prairie, their horses setting a conservative yet mile-eating pace. Far to their left rose a range of mountains, tall and capped with white even in the middle of summer. To the east, the direction they rode, at nearly double the miles, rose the prominence of Whiterun surmounted by Dragonsreach. It was barely discernible at this distance, the sun setting behind them, their shadows stretching further and further before them. And for Gerhild, it was a beautiful sight.

A beautiful evening.

"There's the road," Vorstag called out over the sound of the horse's hooves pounding the soil. "You wanna follow it?" he asked, thinking of how it veered south—a little out of their way—before heading for Whiterun, "Or keep cutting across the grasslands?"

Gerhild reigned in, studying the road and the countryside before them. They had been traveling across country, risking their horses' limbs and their own necks over the uneven ground—it would be reckless to continue to do so with a perfectly paved road to follow. Besides, she was fairly sure there was a giant's camp somewhere between them and Whiterun. And yet, though it would be faster traveling along the established road, there was a higher chance of running into bandits and robbers. Where Vorstag wore his Dawnguard armor—except his helmet stowed in his pack—she wore a serviceable linen dress of soft blue. Even though a dagger and a war axe, both of ebony, hung from her belt, she had no armor to protect her in a fight, and knew she'd have to let him handle any trouble single-handedly.

Then again, there was always the Dragon Shout that could infuse a supernatural dragon armor over her form, and increase the power of her Thu'ums and her skill with weapons.

"No, Gerhild," he sighed, reading her thoughts.

"What?" she asked innocently, batting her deep violet eyes at him.

"I know what you're thinking," he harrumphed, "And you can forget about it. Don't fight. Don't even Shout. You're not armored, remember?"

Her bow-shaped lips pouted prettily, and her eyes cast down demurely, but she gave him a nod. "Aye, I remember. But you remember that Shout…"

He nudged his horse into hers, causing her mare to shift and her to break off her words to focus on handling her mount. "No arguments."

Apparently Vorstag felt the need to assert his manhood. Things were a little touchy between them, both of them feeling the urgent need to get to Whiterun. To get married. He was trying to do the honorable thing, and keep his hands off her until after the ceremony—except for that one night in Fort Snowhawk… Her cheeks still flushed with the merest memory of their shared passion.

Still, the tension was mounting, the urgency becoming painful, and tempers were growing short. "I understand, Vorstag. I'll only use the Shout if I have to, and only to defend myself."

He sat still for a moment, watching her, his soft brown eyes lost in deep thought. She felt his silence, and looked up from the study of her horse's mane. She saw the look on his face, the concern and love and, aye, mutual frustration, but nothing rancorous was directed at her, only at their situation of self-imposed abstinence. Then he smiled suddenly, his hand reaching up to pat her cheek. "That's a good girl."

She laughed, the sound open and honest, ringing through the prairie. His voice and actions had been a perfect imitation of Ogmund, and the silliness of it broke the tension. "By the Nine, I love you, Vorstag."

He reached over and kissed her, not too brief, definitely not long enough, but it was warm and full of love. "I love you, too. Let's get going, down the road."

"Down the road," she agreed, nudging her horse to a walk beside his.

They hadn't gotten far, the light fading into twilight, when he reigned his horse to a stop again. "Shit," he breathed, instantly setting her on high alert, her senses stretching out into the furrows and creeks of the surrounding area. They were passing a small rock outcropping, and looking at it closely, squinting her eyes to try to pierce through the shadows, she saw movement.

"Lookee here," a man dressed in branded iron armor jumped out onto the road in front of them, another climbing to the top of the rocks to aim a bow. "A nice young couple, traveling the king's highway. Or a lady and her escort, perhaps. Don't matter. You'll pay the toll, if you wanna keep your heads on your shoulders."

"Toll?" Vorstag asked, shifting his horse to place his armored torso between Gerhild and the archer. "Since when has there been a toll on this road?"

"Since we moved in here, what, three months ago?" he called out to his companion, who grunted some sort of agreement.

_"Laas Yah Nir,"_ Gerhild Shouted, the sound barely reaching Vorstag's ears and easily missed by the two bandits.

"How many?" he asked quietly, but she didn't answer right away.

"Twenty septims," the bandit answered, thinking he was asking about the toll.

"Gerhild?" Vorstag didn't turn to look at her, but his head did twitch a little bit. She was taking far too long to answer. "How many are there?"

"Oh, ah…" her voice shook, sounding confused, distracted, unsure. "Two?"

"You gonna pay or do we fight?" the bandit took a step forward, his sword catching the first of the moonlight.

Vorstag didn't question her, but drew his sword. "Don't get shot." Then he turned and quickly charged down the first bandit, standing stupidly in the road. The man was crushed beneath the horse's hooves, his cries of pain loud and clear in the still night. Vorstag paid him no more mind and continued his charge to the outcropping.

The archer fired twice, both at Vorstag, one arrow missing wide and the other bouncing off the steel pauldron at his shoulder. He ignored the missiles, his concentration on pulling his feet out of the stirrups and carefully gauging the distance. At just the right moment, he leaped from the horse's back and landed next to the archer. He shouted with fear, but Vorstag didn't hesitate and cleanly ran him through.

After the dead body slid off his Dwarven sword, he turned back to see Gerhild still sitting her mount, staring down at the bandit in the road, her dagger buried deep in his eye socket.

"Gerhild, you alright?" he called, stooping to wipe off his blade.

She didn't answer, but he didn't notice right away, the blood still coursing through his veins after the brief skirmish. Damn, but he wished there were more around, just to bleed off some of the extra energy he felt. Instead he turned and tracked down his horse. A well-trained warhorse, it had only gone a small distance before stopping and waiting for its rider. "Damn. Remind me to send Vidrald a thank you note; that's a fine mount he gave me."

He heard her silence then, and as he walked back to the road, the reins of his horse in one hand, he looked a little closer at her. She sat astride her horse, her eyes staring around her, her head turning and tilting like she couldn't quite understand what she was seeing. He bent over and retrieved her dagger, catching her attention as he handed it back to her. "You alright? You weren't shot, were you? I tried to distract the archer…"

"No!" she said quickly, and realizing she had spoken perhaps a little too harshly or quickly, made and effort to calm herself a little. "No, Vorstag, I wasn't harmed. Thank you." She took the dagger back from him and, after wiping it off, sheathed it.

"Ah… are there any more out here?" he asked, seeing as she was still slightly upset about something and not wanting to inadvertently stumble into whatever was so sensitive.

"What? Oh, ah, let me check. I… ah… have to dismount. My horse is messing things up."

He nodded, accepting her explanation a face value, and took the reins. It wasn't often she liked to ride a horse, considering them nothing better than dragon bait. But they were in a hurry to reach Whiterun, and riding was faster than walking. He watched her step away a short distance, and could barely hear her whispered Shout. He did see her eyes, glowing light blue in the night, as she turned on the spot, gazing all around them, neither friend nor foe nor animal hidden from her. She stopped finally, tilted her head, held her hand up in front of her face, and gave a little shake.

"Gerhild?"

"Ah, no, Vorstag, no one's left outside. But there are three more, underground. Must be a cave or mine somewhere nearby."

"Should we find it and clear it out?" he suggested warily. "I don't like the idea of you fighting without armor…"

"But neither do you like the idea of leaving bandits behind to prey on innocent travelers," she finished. "There are only three, I think. Shouldn't be any trouble."

"Alright," his thin lips pressed into a thin line between words, "Where?"

"There," she pointed confidently, a strange contrast to her earlier confusion. They walked together around the outcropping, finding a wooden door leading to an abandoned mine. Tethering their horses outside, they crept silently into the darker interior. _"Laas Yah Nir,"_ she Shouted yet again, and again gave that funny tilt to her head.

"Gerhild, what is wrong with you?" he asked, managing to sound exasperated even through a whisper.

"I… I can't fight," she stammered. "You'll have to…"

"I intended to," he interrupted her. Damn but his blood was still racing, his limbs still energized and itching for a conflict. He'd have one with her if he wasn't careful. "How many and where?"

She heard the command in his voice, but it didn't have an effect on her, her voice still sounding preoccupied. "Two rooms. One in the first, on the right, looks to be sleeping. Two in the second room, one lying down, the other sitting."

"I'll be right back," he gripped his sword a little tighter. "Stay right here."

She nodded to his back, and watched him get swallowed within the darkness. "Shit…" she breathed, sliding down to the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees.

Vorstag crept through the tunnel, reaching the first chamber silently. The lone bandit was sleeping, lying on his side on a bedroll, a single candle burned down low. His blade passed with a slick sound through the sleeping bandit's neck. He made a soft gurgle as he died, but it wasn't loud enough to alert the others, even within the enclosed space.

He rotated his sword through the air, resettling his grip, and pressed further into the mine.

The second room proved a little tougher, which suited him just fine. One of the bandits was easily taken out of the fight, groggily waking from sleep when Vorstag charged the room. He barely had time to find his mace before Vorstag's blade lopped off his hand. He lay there, screaming and bleeding out, while Vorstag faced the leader.

The bandit chief was a little more of a challenge, as befitted a leader. They engaged a few times, their swords clanging together, the sound much louder thanks to being surrounded by hard-packed earth and stone. No jibes or threats were exchanged, both men sensing a worthy opponent in the other and focusing on their fight. Vorstag feinted while the bandit wisely held back, biding his time for a true opening. He deflected a blow to his head and sidestepped a following swipe at his midsection.

Vorstag was smiling, his brown eyes warm with the exercise and adrenaline. It was so tempting to allow the fight to continue for a time, to enjoy the other's skill and perhaps give him a lesson or two. Both men, however, knew Vorstag was the better swordsman and would eventually win.

He finally sighed, figuring if he didn't finish soon, Gerhild would come looking for him, promise or no promise. Two quick thrusts, a feint, a shove and another thrust, and the bandit leader slipped in the bloodied ground next to the other bandit. Vorstag pursued, jamming the hilt of his sword onto the leader's head, cracking his skull. For added measure, he set the tip of his sword against his chest, and leaned on the hilt as he drove the blade through his heart.

The one-handed bandit was still alive, whimpering, weakened by blood loss. Vorstag wasn't a cruel man, and gave him a quick death. He emotionlessly wiped his blade free of blood, and retraced his steps to the opening of the mine.

He saw Gerhild sitting there, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. A feeling of dread gripped his heart, now that the heat of battle was out of his system, and he raced up to her, falling to the ground by her side. "Gerhild?" he called, pulling her into his arms for a quick embrace. Then he leaned back, his hands roving all over her, squeezing her limbs and checking her head. "What is it? What's wrong? Were you hurt? You should've said something…"

"I'm… no… I'm not hurt," she sniffed, vainly fighting back the tears. A tremble swept through her, and the next moment she was wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging to him, shuddering into his chest.

He heard her muffled curse whispered into his armor, some sort of emotion making her shake beneath its force. She'd been so stable these past two weeks or so, since being cured of vampirism and getting her own soul back—slightly changed after spending so much time with the dragon souls she carried—that this strong reaction was no longer characteristic of her. He didn't know what to do, and decided to tell her as much. "Gerhild, please, my love, what's wrong? You're scaring me." When she didn't answer right away, he pressed on. "Answer me, my heart, were you hurt?"

"…no…"

"Good," he closed his eyes briefly, but continued to hold her closely. "Are there more bandits?"

She shook her head with her denial this time, and he relaxed a little more.

"Alright. Is there any other danger nearby? Wolves? Dragons?"

She sniffed again, "No. Not that. I… ah, gods, how do I say this…?"

He laughed softly, not sure why other than the relief that there was no more danger near them. He leaned back and took hold of her chin, lifting her eyes to his, and advised, "Just say it. Whatever is wrong, just say it, and we'll face it together."

"That's just it," she pulled away a little, the back of her hand wiping at her nose. "Nothing's wrong, and everything's wrong. Vorstag, I… I'm… there's…"

Relief was turning to frustration. He strove manfully to hide it, but if she didn't spill it soon, he was gonna take her over his knee and spank her. Or kiss her senseless. Or… something!

"When I used the Shout," she began, figuring to start at the beginning, "The one that detects life forces, even things like Dwarven Automatons…"

"Everything but dragons, aye, I know it," he rushed her a little. Stamping down his impatience, he tried to smile and brush back a few strands of hair from her face. "You said the horse was messing things up for you."

"That's what I thought," she nodded, but her eyes were saying something else, willing him to figure it out without her having to say anything more. When he only stared back blankly, she knew she had to continue. "After getting off my horse, and walking a few paces away, and Shouting again…" how long could she stall? "There was another life force."

He blinked at her, trying to reason it through. "Another life force? Like another person? A victim of these bandits?"

She was shaking her head before he even finished. "Not… someone else… I mean, outside of me…"

"Outside of you and me," he corrected, still not understanding.

She shook her head, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. "No, I mean, when I used that Shout, there was an extra halo, or a double image, no matter whom I looked at, or where I looked, because there is another life force," she took their entwined hands, placing them against her belly, "Inside me."

He stared at her, poleaxed.

"Say something?"

She watched his eyes blink. Fine, he was still alive, but…

"Please?"

When he finally moved, it was like a dam had broken. He laughed, almost cheered. Ah, fuck it, he did cheer. He crowed boastfully into the empty mine, his voice spilling out into the surrounding prairie. His other arm held her close, rocking her back and forth, wanting to spin her around and around joyously but they were still sitting on the ground. He kept his hand on her belly when he finally released her, his eyes shining with the pride of accomplishment. Gods, he was going to be insufferable about this.

"Vorstag, this isn't good…"

"Of course it is!" he stopped her words, barely able to speak around the grin splitting his face. "You're with child…"

"Aye," she stopped his words, "A child. A babe. And… oh, Vorstag, this can't be happening." She managed to disengage herself, gaining her feet and taking a few steps to push open the door and reach the outside.

He followed, but hung back a little, wanting to know exactly why this was so wrong. "Gerhild? Please, don't walk away from me. Tell me, what's scaring you?" He put his hands on her shoulders, a little hesitant, not to pull her back to him, but to let her know he was there, with her.

She lifted her face up to the heavens, the moonlight soft on her pale skin. "I'm Dovahkiin. You know what that entails. I have to face Alduin, sometime in the future, the near future probably. How can I do that, with a belly heavy with child?

"And even if I delay facing Alduin so I can bring this child to term, there are still the other dragons. They seek me out, whether I'm within a city or the deserted countryside. And, again, how can I fight a dragon, knowing that it would only take one glancing blow to make me miscarry." She turned back to him, her breath shuddering in her chest.

"It's happened. Not to me, but my mother. She…" paused to wipe away a tear, the first she had cried over her mother in years, "Maeganna was with child, a few years before I was born. She and father got into a fight with some Imperials." She didn't need to recite the whole story, as her mother had been carrying Ulfric's child, and Vorstag didn't need to know that… not tonight anyway. "She ran a soldier through, but the force knocked the hilt into her stomach, and she lost the babe. I… Vorstag, I don't want something like that to happen to me, to my baby. And it's more likely to, considering who and what I am."

"Shh," he breathed into the cool night air, the sound falling between them. He thought her fears ungrounded, at the very least ridiculously far-fetched, but he knew fears rarely if ever gave in to reason. He had to reassure her, calm her, and encourage her to get her through this. "Listen, I don't know what's going to happen, and neither do you, but I do know this: we are together; we will be together."

"But…" she briefly sucked on her lower lip, "But what am I going to do?"

He smiled, his white teeth bright in the moonlight. "WE," he stressed, "Are going to have a baby."

His face was so hopeful, so proud, so overflowing with love, she had to let go of the short bark of laughter strangling her breath.

"First, we'll get on our horses and head to Whiterun," he pulled her into his chest, stroking her back soothingly. "Then you and Eorlund can plan this dragon-inspired armor you've been dreaming of. After that, we'll get married, find a place to live, somewhere quiet and private and with protection from dragons." He kissed the intricate braids of her hair, inhaling the scent of her lavender soap. "You'll need new armor before you face Alduin, and that'll take time to make, time enough to carry our baby to term, tucked safely away in our new home. See? It all works out."

She let him tilt her face upwards to kiss her, just as she let herself believe in his bravado and confidence. "It all works out," she repeated, not quite feeling it as much as he did, but saying it nonetheless, the need to feel his reassurance being so strong.

"And," he added, going back to holding her, "I'll be with you the whole time. As your companion. Your love. Your husband. You're not facing things alone any longer, Gerhild. I will always be here for you, with you."

She clung to him, the fear subsided but still there. "I love you."

He rocked her comfortingly, "I love you, too."

"Marry me?"

He laughed softly, "As soon as we get to Whiterun."

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It was late in the evening, a few days after the run-in with the bandits, when Vorstag and Gerhild reached Whiterun. She was tired, but had insisted they pressed onward, feeling a little of that driving mania of old creeping back into her. She wanted to get to Whiterun, to get to safety. And other than Vorstag's arms, the Companions' home of Jorrvaskr was the only other place where she felt safe.

Vorstag hadn't argued, other than being a little over-protective of her condition, which she frequently scoffed at. Still, it was with a great sigh of relief—from both of them—when they dismounted at Whiterun Stables.

A dark haired Nord was sitting just outside, smoking a pipe. He stood as they walked their horses up to the stables, anticipating customers. "You looking to stable your horses…" he began, his voice trailing away as he recognized her. "Lady Gerhild. It's an honor."

"Hello, Skulvar," she inclined her head, showing a smile she didn't feel. It had been a long, hard trip, but ever the consummate actress, she played her part well. "Aye, I suppose we will be stabling these animals. At least," she cast a look at Vorstag, "You said you wanted to keep your mount."

"Aye," he agreed, stroking the gelding's neck. "He's a fine animal. Grown kinda attached to him." He finished untying their packs from the horses' saddles.

"Then we're stabling these two horses," she handed over the anticipated amount of coin, "At least for the month. If it's longer, I'll send my housecarl back with more coin."

"Of course, Lady Gerhild. We'll see to it these two horses are cared for and pampered with the finest grains and freshest water. Jervar!" he turned his head to call out to his son, before turning back to them. "Have you been riding far? Get these mounts rubbed down quickly. They've got the look of trained warhorses about them. And make sure they get a good amount of feed."

Vorstag was entertained how the ostler split his conversation between them and the boy, Jervar, presumably his son. "Aye, from up near Morthal," she answered. "They're good horses, and have served us well, so we appreciate your taking such good care of them."

"Of course, Thane North-Wind, of course. And Lord, er…" his voice trailed away as he finally took a good look at her companion in the flickering torchlight. Vorstag had been to Whiterun before, and the tattoo on his cheek was quite remarkable, but everyone had heard of his death, and Gerhild's subsequent 'illness'—though most thought she had suffered a broken heart, not a broken head.

"Oh, no," Vorstag made a dismissing motion with his hand, his lips stretched into a wide and charming smile, "No title yet. Still just plain old Vorstag of Markarth. Come on, Gerhild, it's late. We should get home."

"Aye," she nodded. "Excuse us, Skulvar, but we've had a long journey. Good night, and thank you for taking such good care of our horses."

They walked off, hand-in-hand, both of their packs over his shoulders, and a stunned Skulvar staring after them. "Well, shit…"

It was a bit off-putting, Vorstag supposed, the way everyone recognized Gerhild, even the greenest soldier knuckling his forehead as they passed. And when their eyes fell to him, everyone grew silent, like he was some long lost cousin that they hadn't seen in fifty years. Ever the easy-going type, he tried not to let it get to him. He kept reminding himself that they had reached their goal, they were in Whiterun, and soon they would be married, so of course everyone needed to find out he was still alive.

But the stares were unsettling. If only one person would come up to him and offer a greeting…

Breezehome, Gerhild's house in Whiterun, was thankfully near the front gate. They reached it with only a few more shocked stares and reverently whispered curses, most everyone having already finished their business for the day and off the streets. Gerhild didn't knock, but brought out a spare key from one of her many pouches—for years Vorstag has fought an impulse to try to ferret out and count every single one of her pouches; it would make for an interesting evening he was sure.

The door finally opened and they stepped in, both of them sighing with relief. Then both of them gave a funny sort of laugh, seeing as how they reacted the same way. "I suppose I should have warned them that you are alive," she offered, her hands at her waist trying to undo her belt. "Lydia!"

The sound of heavy boots could be heard upstairs, directly over their heads, which Vorstag was sure was Gerhild's room, not the room for the housecarl. He looked to her, but she just gave a minuscule shake of her head, signaling to him that they'd talk about it later.

Lydia came stomping down the stairs, her eyes wide and her lips parted as she panted. "Honor to you, my Thane," she stumbled out with her steps. Her eyes swept over to Vorstag and she nearly tripped. He, unfortunately, was in a position to catch her and keep her from slapping face first into a dresser. Being a gentleman he reached out to steady her, even though his hands were full of his belt and sword.

"Easy there," he smiled, "Or we'll have to get a railing installed."

"V-v-v…" she stared at him, her eyes even wider than before, if that was possible, "Vorstag…?" There was an extra redness to her cheeks that wasn't from the rogue she liked to use.

"Good to see you, too," he beamed at her, letting go to finishing hanging up his sword and belt.

With his back to her, she couldn't see how hard he was struggling not to laugh. Gerhild could, and it was making her lips twitch. "Um, Lydia," she began, trying not to look at him as he stowed his helmet and gauntlets, "I know you've got a lot of questions, but they can wait until morning. Vorstag and I have been traveling hard for almost three weeks to get here. We're tired, hungry, and grouchy."

"But not in that order," he added, turning around now that he had himself back under control. "Is there any food in this house?"

"I, ah, wasn't expecting you," Lydia mumbled, "So I don't have anything prepared."

"Oh, that's alright; I can cook something," he offered.

"No, just grab some cheeses and bread. I don't want to wait to eat."

He flashed a smile at her, warm and suggestive, and she felt herself blushing.

"Ah, my Thane…?"

Vorstag was perusing the cupboards, chucking random foot items into a basket. "You got any milk?"

"Ah, no. Um, my Thane…?"

Gerhild was also tossing items into the basket. "Water will do. There should be bottles of mead on that shelf over there."

"Great!"

"Ah, Lady Gerhild…?"

"Oh, you don't mind if we take these two sweet rolls?" she asked, trying to sound innocent. "Sorry if you were saving them for breakfast, but I'm so hungry tonight, I could eat for two!"

Vorstag gave a chuckle at that last statement, causing Gerhild to blush when she realized what she had said. She turned away before Lydia could see her burning cheeks and added the rolls to the rest.

"Gerhild!"

Both of them looked up at the housecarl, her eyes still wide and her eyebrows lifting off of her forehead.

Gerhild allowed a brief flicker of irritation to cross her features, but finally gave in. "Oh, fine. Here's the short version. Vorstag's death was faked by someone who wanted information on me. He escaped, we met up, took care of the vampires, and now we're here in Whiterun to get married. Have I lift anything out?"

"Plenty," he nodded, his arms full of packs and basket and extra bottles tucked under one arm, a loaf of bread tucked under the other. "But the rest can wait until morning."

They started up the stairs, Gerhild holding the skin of water and another chunk of cheese. "Good night, Lydia."

She ignored their obvious dismissal, even to the point of following them halfway up the stairs. "But… my Thane…married… I thought you said he was gay!"

"Lydia!"

"Shit, you told her that?"

Gerhild didn't have to look behind her to know he had that kicked puppy expression on his face. She stopped climbing, staring at the next step as she ground out between her teeth, "Vorstag, later. Lydia, leave it until the morning."

"But…" she unwisely persisted, and even Vorstag threw a warning look at her. "But, if, I mean, you're getting married, shouldn't you, ya know, wait? I mean, it isn't done, it isn't seemly, people will talk."

You will talk, Gerhild thought to herself, but didn't repeat it out loud. Yet she couldn't resist the parting shot of, "The damage has been done, Lydia. Good night."

"Good night," Vorstag added, feeling a bottle slipping out of his grasp and really wanting to get upstairs before he lost it. He pressed up behind Gerhild a little closer, hurrying her along.

Lydia was finally silenced. She stood still for several moments, her feet on the steps, her face lifted up after them. She heard them walking around the landing out of sight, the door open and close, Gerhild's giggle and the bed creak. It creaked again. And again. And…

Lydia, her cheeks still flaming, turned around on the spot and headed for the front door. She didn't bother with a cloak, she didn't bother with a coin purse—everyone in Whiterun knew she'd be good for the money. She went through the motions of locking the door behind her. Her mind was numb as she headed up the street towards the Bannered Mare.

Farkas saw her walk in, her eyes a little wild and her face a mask of shock. Concerned, he approached her at the bar, but not before she downed her first shot of Colovian Brandy.

"Good evening, Lydia. How are you tonight?"

"Oh, ah… Farkas," she blinked at him.

He was used to it, after a lifetime of having an identical twin. When they weren't side-by-side, it could take people a moment or two to figure out which one he was. He didn't mind, he never minded, and leaned against the counter. "What brings you here tonight?"

She downed a second shot. "Could ask the same thing of you. Jorrvaskr run out of mead?"

Farkas laughed, thinking she was telling a joke. Lydia liked to joke with him. "No, I was just clearing out a skeever problem Mistress Hulda had in her basement. She said I could stay and have something to eat, on the house."

Lydia nodded, setting down her third shot and trying to order a fourth.

"You alright?"

She turned to him, hearing the concern in his voice, but really wishing the buzzing would start. "Nope, but I'm hoping to be soon." Down went the fourth, but Hulda was refusing to acknowledge her pounding the empty glass on the counter.

"Ya know," he leaned in even closer, the sweet smell of mead thick on his breath, but due to his massive size, not a hint of the alcoholic effects were showing. "That stuff doesn't help. Not really. Just leaves you with a big headache in the morning. Come on. Talking is what helps."

He took her elbow, nodded to Hulda, and steered Lydia out into the fresh night air. They walked for a few blocks, Lydia really wishing that damn buzzing would start, hoping it would drown out the little voice chanting in the back of her head. _Gerhild and Vorstag… Gerhild and Vorstag…_

"Hey, you forgot a light on in the house."

"What?" she snapped her head up a little too fast. There it was, the fuzziness around the edges, the tilting ground beneath her feet, the numbing hum in her ears. She was just about to give up hope.

"There's a light on in Breezehome," he said a little slower. And people thought he wasn't very smart. "Where's your key? We should go inside and turn it off."

"Gerhild wouldn't like that," Lydia felt her cheeks redden, "Nor would he."

He put an arm around her shoulders, mostly to keep her from reeling away down the street. "Gerhild's back? My brother will want to hear that. Wait, who's he?" Farkas asked, still studying the light in the upstairs window. Shadows shifted in front of it, but he couldn't see what was going on.

She didn't want to say it, because it would be repeating that annoying little chant inside her skull, but he had asked… "Gerhild and Vorstag."

He looked at her, his lips drawing down into a frown. He had heard the mocking little tune behind her words, and thought she was teasing him again. But he remembered that Vorstag was dead, and Gerhild had loved him, and she was so sad that she made Vilkas mad enough to try to kill her. "That one's not very funny, Lydia."

"I'mna jokin'," she slurred, beginning to feel warm. Come on, brandy!

Farkas continued to frown, but seeing that there was someone in Breezehome, and Lydia was somewhat upset or uneasy about it, he decided to bring her to Vilkas. He could figure out what she was trying to say. "Come on, let's go talk with my brother. You can tell him Gerhild is back. Do you know how long she's gonna stay this time?"

Lydia could barely feel the strong arm wrapped around her just beneath her armpits. Her legs, too, refused to send her nerve impulses, or accept them, wobbling like boiled cream in a pastry. "'til the weddin'."

"Whose wedding?"

She blinked at him. "Hersh, a-course."

Yup, she was drunk. He should've headed her off right away, but he didn't realize she was such a light-weight. He gave up trying to make her make sense—Vilkas had the smarts for that—and simply carried her up to Jorrvaskr.

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Aventus sat cross-legged on his bed, his head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the mumbling going on in the next room. He did a lot of that, listening that is, as the Night Mother had decided he was the one she would speak to. Their leader, Astrid, had been defensive when he first told her, though she seemed to allow for the possibility. Cicero, the Keeper, switched between jealousy and joy, probably because he still wanted himself to have been the Listener. But most everyone else didn't seem to care, so long as there were contracts to fulfill and money coming in.

Aventus rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn, fighting off the tired feeling. Business had slowed down during the war, but now that Skyrim was unified and free, a fresh string of contracts had popped up. Most of them were from commoners who wanted revenge against some nameless, faceless soldier who had raped, murdered, plundered, etc. It kept him busy, having to leave on a moment's notice whenever the Night Mother told him to follow-up yet another poor soul invoking the Black Sacrament. The money wasn't great, but it was work.

And it was work he was very, very good at.

He had been sitting there, trying to stay awake, even though he had been up for more than thirty hours straight. Over the past couple of years being the Listener, he had gotten a sense for when the Night Mother was preparing to speak to him. He had been asleep once, and having her invade his dreams to wake him and speak with him was not an experience he wanted to repeat. So, after his last mission, when he had returned home and gotten that sense that she was close to speaking, he had merely settled his tired body onto his bed and waited.

And listened to Cicero's insane mumbling.

That the Keeper was insane Aventus had no doubt. That didn't necessarily make him dangerous—he was an assassin, that was grounds enough to make him dangerous. But he knew, he just knew, Cicero was going to cause trouble, if he hadn't already. But that wasn't his problem, that was Astrid's problem. His problem was keeping himself awake until the Night Mother spoke to him.

_"Yes, I know,"_ she sighed into his head. _"I haven't been considerate of your needs, my child."_

A smirk crossed his lips, a little huff of indignation, but other than that there was no reaction. He had learned to school his features when she spoke, if only because talking out loud to someone who was speaking only in your head made most people look at you funny.

_"I have had problems, too."_

He wondered to himself, what type of problems the dead could have.

_"If only I could show you,"_ she answered. _"But not now. We have had much discussion, my husband and I. Someone has invoked the Black Sacrament."_

He tapped his head against the wall, and wondered where he was supposed to go to next.

_"That is the problem. We are not sure you should go. But, technically he has called on the Dark Brotherhood. You will need to go and hear what he has to say. Speak not to him. Make no promises. Take no advance in payment. Only hear what he has to say, and leave. Can you do that, my son?"_

A little knot of affection burned in his heart like a candle flame whenever she called him her son. It felt so good to have a family, to belong, to have found something he was good at. "Yes, Night Mother," he breathed, forgetting himself and speaking out loud.

"What was that?" Gabriella asked, just coming into the room.

Aventus rubbed his eyes again, opening them up to see her standing over him. "Oh, hello," he said to the Dunmer, "Just, ya know, talking with Mother."

Gabriella eyed him, but didn't question his strange statement. She had been the most accepting of the Night Mother coming to them, and of Aventus being the Listener. She sat down on her own bed, tilting her head to ask, "Who is it this time?"

He yawned and stretched, his long limbs making his skin-tight leather armor creak. He started to work a few of the buckles loose as he answered, "Some Altmer up by Windhelm. But I can start after I get some sleep."

She hummed a little something, not quite a word, but enough to let him know she understood. She, too, began to undo some of her buckles, getting ready for bed, though far too often her eyes strayed over to his body. He was still a little young for her tastes, but he was growing up so quickly. Must be something to do with his race; Nords always grew so strong and thick. She eyed the light sprinkling of dark hair already spreading across his chest and sighed to herself. Another year, perhaps, and then she would see what he was like. There were so few to chose from.

"Did you say something?" he yawned, looking across the room at her.

"What? Oh, nothing, just sleep tight, my brother."

"Huh, oh, good night," he answered, slipping under the furs. In his mind, he was thinking it would be weird, returning to Windhelm again. He hadn't been there since the night Lady Gerhild Shouted him out a window. A smile made a lazy effort to tug at one corner of his mouth, but had to give up when sleep overtook him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: profuse apologies for the delay in posting. I've been distracted by too many video games—namely Lego Batman 3 (long story…) and Dragon Age II (Fenris—hnggggg). And trying to write Vorstag's backstory for Outtakes. Then I'm rewriting HoF for AO3 and… I won't even mention all the writing I've been doing out there in the real world (the real world has no place in fan fiction, I've decided) :{**

**And then, to add insult to injury, when I finally got around to writing this, all Gerhild and Vorstag wanted to do was have smut. I mean, really! This was not the gratuitous smut chapter. This was supposed to be a serious chapter with plot in it. But oh, the imagery would not leave in my head… :3**

**Anyway, here it is, at long last, proving I haven't abandoned these two knuckleheads ;D**

**Chapter Two**

He was fairly sure it was still morning. It was definitely daytime, and late enough in the day for businesses to have opened—he could hear Adrianne working at her forge next door, the greetings of people passing on the street, and someone's gods-damned rooster crowing. His body, however, told him he could sleep in a little longer, the muscles of his limbs feeling loose like a long taffy treat. He and Gerhild had split the first half of last night between eating and… Aye, they had been a bit too enthusiastic, perhaps, but for the first time in weeks they had a bed and some privacy. And he had taken full advantage of it. He let out a long, contented breath through his nose and reached across the bed.

Vorstag's hand found a fistful of pelts, still warm with the heat from the body that had occupied them. Damn it, if Gerhild was up, then he'd never get back to sleep, much less spend a little more time… snuggling. He cracked an eye open, a little fearful that he might find himself alone.

She was there, her back to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and running a comb through the snarls created by sleep and their activities. He lazily watched her toned arms reaching around her head as she shifted her mane of long, dark gold tresses over one shoulder. Her back became exposed, revealing the scars that marred the flesh there, from just beneath her shoulder blades to—he knew—the tops of her thighs. It saddened him a little, thinking of the vow she had made: that she'd never get rid of those scars, so long as the Thalmor threatened Skyrim. She'd driven them out, aye, but they weren't vanquished. And for one morbid moment, he couldn't see a time they wouldn't be a threat, unless she managed to submit Alduin to her will and rode him to wage war against the Aldmeri Dominion…

She tossed the tresses over her other shoulder, and must've glanced behind her to see he was awake. She paused, and the lack of movement brought him out of his brown study to see her face. Her violet eyes were shining this morning, even lightening to a deep blue, coyly surveying him over the top of her shoulder. A tiny furrow appeared between her eyebrows, no doubt in response to the brooding expression on his face. Damn it, but he never wanted to give her any cause for concern; there was enough weight on her shoulders already. Softening his features, he smiled a little cockily up at her and murmured, "Good morning."

The furrow disappeared, either with relief that nothing was wrong, or with willingness to ignore whatever was troubling him. She smiled back, "Good morning," and returned to combing her hair, though she kept her gaze on him, sweeping his form as he stretched beneath the pelts and scratched at some itch.

It was apparent to him that he couldn't distract her from getting ready for the day by mere suggestion. Deciding to be more forthcoming, he kicked off the pelts and scooted to the edge of the bed. He settled himself behind her, one leg to either side, his arms wrapped around her waist. "What're you doing?" he sighed into the skin of her neck.

"Combing my hair," she answered, being purposefully obtuse.

His lips were warm and wet, making her almost blush with how readily her body responded. "Why?"

Her hands faltered as he boldly caressed her with the assurance of possession. And he did own her, body and heart and soul. Just as she owned him. "Um… it had snarls in it… and I… I don't like snarls… in my hair…"

"Neither do I," he agreed, taking the comb out of her unresisting grip, the other hand burrowing through the weighty mass. Slowly he pulled his hand away, the strands falling through his fingers like silk, to settle light and tickling on her skin. She shifted away a little from the touch, but his arm on the other side kept her from finding any escape.

"I… ah… I was… um…" her voice trailed off into silence as his hands continued to cover her skin. Gods, but he had long fingers. And she was powerless against his attentions. She felt like she was battling a dragon, the way she had to fight to bring her brain back into gear. "We should… get up…"

"No need," his breath was hot on her neck, branding her with his voice. "I'm already up."

She laughed softly, feeling confirmation pressing against her back. "I meant, for the day."

His fingers in her hair, the tips massaging gently, sent a jolt ripping through her like a lightning spell. He continued to caress and stroke, his touch ranging from featherlight to kneading. She closed her eyes, giving a small shiver as the sensations intensified, her hands on his wrists not so much to guide as to simply follow. She leaned her head back, resting it on his shoulder, exposing her neck submissively.

If she wanted, she could have resisted him. If she wanted, she could have broken his hold on her and slipped from his control. If she wanted. But right then, she didn't want to break away; right then, she wanted him to continue those lightning-laced ministrations. Right then, she felt empty and needy inside, and knew he could make her feel whole.

Vorstag smiled to himself. It was funny if he stopped to think about it, how hard it had been to get her to see that she loved him, that he loved her. All the confusion. All the misunderstandings. All the lost opportunities. Yet now she responded so readily to his touch, to his merest suggestion, to any hint or whispered whim. He kissed her neck, she tilted her head to expose more skin. His fingers stroked her thigh, she spread her legs wider.

A knock sounded on the door downstairs. Vorstag answered with a growl of frustration, settling his forehead on the top of her shoulder.

She sighed resignedly, feeling the frustrated passion as readily as he. "I suppose it couldn't last."

He made an small noise of agreement, "You mean, until someone found out you were in Whiterun. Let Lydia answer the door." Single-mindedly he returned to his possession of her body.

"I think she left," Gerhild protested, but weakly, closing her eyes as he nuzzled her neck again.

"Hmm, I remember hearing her leave last night. But she'd've come back, wouldn't she?" His hands spread across her stomach, making the barest of movements, the most minimal strokes. Gods, he couldn't wait to see his seed start to swell her belly.

When the person knocked again, and there was no sound of Lydia hurrying to answer it, Vorstag gave up.

"I'll get it," he pressed one last kiss to her skin, before letting go and reaching for his leggings.

"I'll be right behind you," she agreed, reaching out to snatch her shift from the back of the chair. Her dress lay in a rumpled pile near the table—it had missed the chair last night—but she ignored it in favor of a clean gown. She looked up as the fourth knock sounded, Vorstag calling out some sort of answer or plea for patience. He was stamping his feet into his boots as he walked out of the bedchamber, his head through the neck of his tunic, his arms flailing at the sleeves. She sighed, took out a gown of dark red velvet, and started hunting for a pair of soft boots.

Vorstag reached the door and opened it, his face curious to see who might be there, despite the inconvenience of the interruption to his morning plans. It took him only a moment to recognize the dark haired man standing there, staring at him with wide, silver-hued eyes. "Vilkas!"

"…Vorstag…?" When Vorstag smiled and grabbed his forearm in the Nordic fashion, pulling him inside, Vilkas managed to start breathing again. "By Talos, is it… is it…?"

"Good to see you, too, old friend," Vorstag closed the door with one hand, his other held captive by the Harbinger.

"I thought…" he tried again, guilt reaching up from his chest to strangle the words in his throat, forcing him to remain incoherent. "I found… your body… armor… ring…" He coughed, finally dislodging the chokehold, but his words weren't any more eloquent. "I mean, how the fuck…?"

Aye, Vorstag knew this was going to be awkward. It had been already with Ralof, but it would be harder with him. Vilkas had been the one who found the mutilated corpse and identified it as Vorstag. "It's… a long story," he began, lamely.

"One we'll tell you later," Gerhild broke in, sparing Vorstag from having to explain everything, just yet. Vilkas turned to her, and seeing her warm smile and the spark of love in her eyes as she glanced towards Vorstag, was enough to remove any lingering doubt from his mind.

"By the Nine," he breathed. Then he laughed, loud and full. He finally released Vorstag to stride up to Gerhild, wrap her in his arms, and spin her around. He started babbling as soon as he set her back on her feet. "I thought Lydia had, well, either gotten too drunk, or perhaps gone a little batty living all alone in this house, but she was right. You are back. You," he turned to Vorstag, wrapping him up, though he didn't attempt to pick him up and spin him around like he had Gerhild. Instead they slapped each other on the backs, "You are back. Gods, I… I can't… I'm sorry, Vorstag. Gods forgive me, but I am so sorry. I thought you were dead. I told Gerhild… everyone… you were dead…"

"You were supposed to," he admitted, finally freeing himself and moving to stand next to Gerhild.

"Why?"

The one word hung there, so simple a sound, a single syllable, but it weighed as much as the whole of Nirn.

"I… I don't know what I can tell you…" Vorstag began, giving her a sideways glance.

"He knows I'm Dragonborn," she supplied, sensing the reason for his hesitation. She set a comforting hand on his shoulder, knowing that sharing the experience would be difficult for him, and gave him a sad little smile. "Tell him what you wish."

Vorstag nodded, letting out a heavy breath. "It's too hard for me to keep track, who knows you as Lady Gerhild, or as the Dragonborn, and all that." He looked back at Vilkas, "I'll tell you more details later, but the official story is, the Thalmor heard that I might have met the Dragonborn. They captured me so they could torture me for information on her. They staged my death so no one, especially the Dragonborn, would suspect I was still alive and come looking for me."

"…fuck…" Vilkas' lips barely moved as he exhaled, his eyes wide as he leaned against a dresser for support.

"I was being held at Northwatch Keep, the same time Thorald Gray-Mane was there. Gerhild arrived with Avulstein to rescue Thorald, and found me. We knew, as long as there were Thalmor in Skyrim, that I wouldn't be safe. So I went into hiding until after the Civil War was over," he continued the lie they had created to cover all the mistakes and misunderstandings that followed his rescue. "Then I joined the Dawnguard, got them ready to fight the vampires. Now that that mess is taken care of," he reached out to catch her hand, and her sad little smile turned braver, "We came to Whiterun. To get married."

"Fuck!" Damn, he was supposed to be the smart twin, but for once in his life he felt as lost and bewildered as his brother in a discussion about how to temper steel. Then again, Farkas would say, as long as the blade was sharp and strong, he didn't need to know how to forge it. "If that's the official story, I wonder what the rest of the story is like. Not that I'm asking you to tell me," he held up a hand, thinking that Vorstag's time as a guest of the Thalmor couldn't have been pleasant, not with the haunted look hovering around his eyes. "Just… fuck. I… but the ring… I found it with… the corpse…"

Vorstag held up his left hand, showing the missing finger. "The Thalmor were very thorough with the details. When they couldn't get the ring off, they took the whole finger."

Vilkas stared at the hand, at the place where the finger had been, the finger that had held a small silver ring that Gerhild had given Vorstag, the ring that Vilkas had used to identify the otherwise mutilated and unrecognizable body.

He didn't like admitting he'd been duped, especially by the condescending Thalmor, but he couldn't deny it. Yet seeing Vorstag alive, the two of them still deeply in love, and knowing the Thalmor hadn't broken Vorstag—not if Gerhild had remained safe from them…

No, whatever happened was in the past. As long as Gerhild and Vorstag were happy, it didn't matter how he turned out to be alive. "Wait," he held up a hand, his brows scrunching, as his brain finally plodded through the last bit of Vorstag's story. "You came back to Whiterun… to…"

"…To get married," Gerhild confirmed. There was a glow about her as she said that, as if those three little words somehow fulfilled her whole existence.

"No shit." Aye, he was anything but articulate this morning. Immediately he put aside all questions, all doubts, all surprise, and took them both into a hug. "Congratulations!" he laughed.

Gerhild laughed, too, the sound full of life, and subtly different than her normal laughter. He knew she kept herself and her actions tightly in control, fearing the strength of her overwhelming emotions. And she had always been able to hide her deadness, to sound and look normal, despite her cold nature. This morning was different. This morning, the emotions were so rich, so robust, so honest, it made Vilkas want to tear up. "You, ah," he paused to clear his throat, "You planning on having it here? In Whiterun?"

"Aye," Vorstag answered for them.

"But why here? I know locals who have gotten married before the Gildergreen, those who can't afford the trip to Riften to get married at the Temple of Mara. But… you're a Thane. You can afford it. Besides, you're…" Vilkas shook his head, "You're the Dragonborn. Everybody's gonna want to attend the Dragonborn's wedding, or at least know about it, and send gifts and have feasts and…"

"Precisely why we're getting married here," Vorstag interrupted him. "A wedding like that would take time to plan—a year at least. And we don't have a year."

"We don't want to wait a year," she corrected, and Vorstag realized his near slip. He pretended interest in a bookshelf while she continued. "We want a nice, private little ceremony."

Vilkas was still having trouble accepting facts. "You'll at least want a few important people to attend, High King Ulfric and…"

"No!"

They both answered so quickly, so vehemently, that Vilkas had to raise a questioning eyebrow. There was more going on here than he knew, but if their reaction was anything to go by, he probably didn't want to get involved.

Gerhild cleared her throat and took the lead again. "No, Vilkas, that's exactly what we don't want. The fewer people attending this event, the better. I know, several people already know I'm the Dragonborn, and more are finding out. But we don't want a large, elaborate Wedding of the Dragonborn, with half of Skyrim trying to show up, and lots of needless conventions and extra feasting and toasting and entertainment and… ugh!" She made a face, waving all the fuss aside with a small shudder. "We want a quiet, simple wedding. Just the two of us, and a couple of witnesses."

"We've, ah, written our friend, Ralof, asking him to stand for one of the witnesses. We'd like to have the ceremony as soon as he can get here."

"Vilkas," Gerhild stepped forward at this point, taking his hand and looking at him with an expression of sincerity, "Would you be our other witness? Would you stand with us, share this moment with us?"

He knew better. She would have preferred Kodlak to witness her wedding; she had loved him like a father, just as Vilkas had, which was probably why she was asking him. Not because he had succeeded Kodlak as the Harbinger, but because his love for Kodlak made him like a brother to her. He tried to swallow that damnable lump in his throat. "Surely, there's someone else you'd rather have, a family member or close friend…" As soon as he said those words, he knew he'd been wrong to give them utterance. But Vorstag answered for them.

"No, neither of us have any living family. Ogmund was the closest thing I had left, but he's gone. And Gerhild's family was gone before she ever reached Skyrim. Our friends are our family now, and we consider you to be one of our closest friends."

He finally choked down that lump. "It was wrong of me to protest, only I didn't want to take the rightful place of someone else. I'd be honored to stand as your witness."

"Thank you," Gerhild's eyes were glistening with tears, so out of character for her that Vilkas caught himself staring.

Vorstag cleared his throat, seeing the way Gerhild was tearing up again. "You, ah, you said something earlier about Lydia?" he motioned for Vilkas to take a seat at the table. "Do you know where she is?" He started poking around the fire pit, trying to rekindle the dead embers there.

"Oh, ah, aye," Vilkas answered, doing his best to ignore her odd behavior. She was acting different, a lot more different than she would just having Vorstag back. There was something more going on, but he got the impression that this might not be the time to ask Vorstag about it. "She… well… Farkas saw her last night, at the Bannered Mare. She downed several shots of brandy before he got to her. He tried taking her outside for a walk after that, to clear her head, only when they passed Breezehome here, he saw a light on inside. He asked her about it, but he couldn't quite understand what she said, other than you were back in Whiterun. He decided to bring her up to Jorrvaskr where I could try talking with her." He paused to give a rueful sort of laugh as Gerhild took a seat opposite him. "She was making even less sense by that time. I had one of the whelps put her to bed, thinking I'd talk with her in the morning. Only she's so, well," he didn't want to say it—it was so disgraceful for a housecarl—but he couldn't see a way to dodge the issue.

"She's too hungover," Vorstag supplied for him. He'd given up on the fire and was now poking around the cupboards. "Gerhild, my love, there's nothing to eat in this place."

"Lydia likes to do her shopping daily," she sighed. "Never mind, Vorstag, we'll go to the Bannered Mare for breakfast. Would you like to come with us, Vilkas?"

"I've… ah… already eaten," he answered, deciding not to point out that it was nearly midday, and instead offered, "Why don't you come back to Jorrvaskr with me? Everyone's gonna want to know you're back in town, and how Vorstag's alive, and who better to spread the news than the Companions? Tell them the story today, and by the end of the week, the whole Hold will know… the bunch of gossiping old wives…" he ended in a disgruntled mutter that was only slightly affected.

Gerhild hummed a little, her eyes growing dreamy, "Tilma is still there, isn't she?"

"Aye," he answered, and even Vorstag took notice of the odd little catch to her voice.

"I remember, she makes the best sweet rolls…"

"That's settled," Vorstag announced. "We'll go to Jorrvaskr, eat, tell stories, and collect Lydia."

"And speak with Danica on the way," she added, already standing up, "And I'm sure I could find time to see Eorlund."

"Eorlund?" Vilkas asked, bewildered.

She smiled to herself, already heading for the stairs back to the bedchamber, thinking only of finding a dragon scale to show to Eorlund, "Aye, let me get something first."

Vorstag shook his head at the almost permanent look of confusion on Vilkas' face. "Idea for some new armor," he said quietly to him. Then he turned to call after Gerhild, "We'll wait for you outside." Some sort of answering sound came back to them.

Once outside, Vilkas took Vorstag's elbow, holding him close as he said softly, "Is she alright? She seems… different."

Vorstag looked back at the house, knowing she couldn't hear them, but he kept his voice low anyway. "It's a long story, but…" he thought about what she had done, the lengths she had gone to in defeating the vampires—especially the time her soul spent with the dragon souls she'd consumed. It wasn't anything he could explain, even if it was his place to do so. He turned back to hold Vilkas' gaze, "Aye, she's different. In a good way. The things that have happened over the past couple of years, it's changed her. She's more… tempered. She's still as strong as ever, but now she's finding there is strength in letting herself feel. It's still new to her and kinda tricky to handle, though, ya know?"

Vilkas knew about the reasons she had for keeping herself so cold. He thought about the offer he had once made to Gerhild, to help her learn to cope with her overly-strong emotions. Though he regretted the lost opportunity, he was glad she had found a way to embrace her emotions. And had Vorstag back in her life.

"By the way, I wanted to say thank you."

"For what?" he shot a confused look at Vorstag, wondering what he had done to warrant such gratitude.

"Gerhild told me what happened, what she tried to make you do, after you told her I was dead."

Images came to Vilkas' mind about that sparring session, how she had goaded him until he lost control of his anger, how his sword had felt sinking into her chest, how the blood from the head wound had smelled pooling on the ground.

"Thank you," Vorstag put his hand out formally.

"For not killing her?" he asked incredulously, staring at the offered hand.

"For forgiving her," Vorstag corrected. He knew how wrong Gerhild had been, and how hard it might have been for Vilkas to forgive her using him so poorly. He kept his gaze steady as Vilkas met his eyes and took his forearm.

"Do you know how damn lucky you are?"

Vorstag nodded, though not as joyfully as one might expect. Being Gerhild's lover held more danger than being her friend or companion. It held more rewards as well. "Aye," he answered soberly.

"Well, you two haven't gotten too far," her voice called to them. They started like a pair of little boys planning to steal someone's sweet roll. She turned after locking the door and smiled at them, the expression warm and full of life. And when her eyes held Vorstag's gaze, Vilkas saw the warmth and life fill those deep violet pools. Gods, she was positively glowing!

Being in love, having Vorstag restored to her, was probably the best thing to happen in Gerhild's life. And after all she'd suffered, and still had to endure, he was glad to see her enjoying a little reward—alright, a large reward. He turned away from the two before he caught himself cooing over them and started down the street.

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Ralof had been to Whiterun before. Growing up in Riverwood, his father often took him and his sister, Gerdur, to the Hold capital whenever he had business there. And as a Stormcloak, Ralof had been there not even a year ago, as the Dragonborn's escort, when she famously took the Hold with hardly any bloodshed—other than the life of one dragon.

This morning, however, he was no country provincial nor conquering soldier; he was merely Ralof of Riverwood, coming to visit his friends. And he was coming alone.

It was understandable, then, the mixed feelings he had walking through the front gates into the city. The guards treated him with cold and incurious politeness, a simple warning to a complete stranger to obey the laws, stay out of trouble, and enjoy his stay. Inside the city bustled with the day's business, a smith working at her forge, a pair of bowmen leaving the corner club to head outside for their hunting trip, a young girl orphaned during the war selling wildflowers…

He bought a small posy, two of each kind of flower, and overpaid her on purpose.

He walked up the steps of Breezehome, Gerhild's house in Whiterun, and knocked on the door. While he waited for a response, he watched the street, a leftover habit from his years as a soldier and escort. Some nobleman came walking by, but paid him no mind, his nose too high in the air to allow him to see Ralof standing on the steps. And he wasn't worth Ralof's time, either.

He knocked again, wondering if they weren't home, where they would be, thinking he might check at Jorrvaskr…

"If you're looking for Lord Vorstag and Lady Gerhild, they're in the Bannered Mare," a voice called out to him from the street.

Ralof turned back and saw a man, mercenary by the look of him, walking towards him. "Thanks," he acknowledged, trying to hide the smile, thinking of what Vorstag would make of being called a 'Lord.' "I'm a friend of theirs, only just arrived from Riverwood…"

"You must be Ralof," the mercenary held out his hand, "Name's Amren."

"Aye, I'm Ralof," his voice was only slightly bewildered, but he took the offered hand and shook it warmly. "Do we know each other?"

Amren laughed, his white teeth a stunning contrast to his dark skin, "No, but I feel like I know you, after all the stories I've heard about you. Lord Vorstag's been entertaining us locals in the Bannered Mare with tales of his adventures. Singing, too." He leaned in close, "And he's a lot better than that pompous ass, Mikael, who calls himself a bard."

Ralof smiled, thinking of Vorstag's performances in the Candlehearth Hall back in Windhelm. "I bet he draws quite the crowd. Is he there now? Entertaining, I mean."

Amren had started walking with him towards the inn. "No, not yet. He likes to wait until after he's eaten. If you hurry, you might be able to join them for supper."

"I will. Thanks again, Amren," he called over his shoulder, jogging down the street. It wasn't only the thought of a hot meal and a full mug that drove him to hurry, but of seeing his friends again. Or at least that's what he told himself.

He pushed open the doors of the Bannered Mare, pausing to take in the sights and smells. Gods, what delicious smells! Swallowing a sudden mouthful of saliva, he swept his gaze side-to-side, searching for the familiar dark gold braids…

Damn it, he almost missed her. Gerhild had her hair loose tonight, the thick mane falling down her back in twisting rivulets. She sat with her side to the door, Vorstag on the bench next to her and Lydia brooding protectively from a nearby table. A pair of twins sat opposite, one of whom had looked up as soon as the door opened, and he was trying to get the others' attentions. Vorstag was the first to glance, and beamed a wide and welcoming smile at him. "Ralof!"

Gerhild spun her head around so quickly, he thought her neck should have snapped. She, too, smiled so warm and loving, a momentary pang of jealousy twisted at his heart. No, he wouldn't give in to that feeling. Gerhild had never felt anything more towards him than friendship, and what she and Vorstag shared was too strong, too special for him to ruin out of spite. Not that he could have if he wanted. He walked up to their table just as she stood up to greet him with an embrace.

"Ralof, I'm so glad you came. I was worried the letter might have missed you, or gotten lost, or you might've decided you didn't want to…"

He laughed, silencing her worries. He pulled back, looking her full in the face, seeing for himself that she was fully cured. "Wouldn't miss it. Not for the whole of Nirn."

He let her go to give Vorstag mutual back slaps. Damn, they had seen each other just a month or so ago, but it felt like half a lifetime. Yet seeing the change in Gerhild, he knew a lot had happened—especially if they wanted to get married quickly and quietly. A suspicion tickled the back of his mind, but he brushed it off. There hadn't been enough time for THAT to have happened, or for her to have noticed it if it did.

"You had an uneventful trip, I trust?" Vorstag led him to a seat between him and the smaller of the two twins. Not that either one was small, but the larger was built like a giant.

"Aye. I stopped in Windhelm only long enough to resign my commission," Ralof answered, accepting a mug from a passing serving girl. "So we got home to Riverwood fairly quickly. Your letter caught up with us there. And I, ah, I came straight here."

"I was going to ask…" Gerhild started, but Vorstag overrode her.

"Ralof, I want you to meet Vilkas, Harbinger of the Companions, and his brother, Farkas."

Ralof gripped their forearms in turn, adding his smile to theirs. It was getting harder to keep up the act, especially after Gerhild almost slipped and asked about Serana. He swallowed another mouthful of the mead and hoped she wouldn't try asking again.

"Seen you before, haven't I?" asked Farkas, looking at him closely. "With the Dragonborn. Standing behind her when she killed that dragon."

Ralof raised a curious eyebrow. "Oh, ah, aye, I was her escort, while she was with the Stormcloaks." He looked between Farkas and Gerhild, wondering if the twins knew, how much they knew…

"Don't confuse the man. You know who the Dragonborn is, Ice-brain," Vilkas muttered, slapping the back of his brother's head.

"I do, sure," he shrugged, hardly noticing the blow, "But I didn't know if he knew. Besides, we're not supposed to talk about it, are we? At least, not in public. And this is public. So I don't know who she is." His beefy hand slapped Vilkas upside the head, a love-tap, but still strong enough to knock his head forward and make him choke on his mead.

Gerhild laughed, the sound rich and lively and spontaneous. Ralof and Vorstag were laughing, too, but Ralof was distracted by the pure honesty of her laughter. He shot a look at Vorstag, who mouthed the word, 'later,' where only he could see.

"He's got you there, Vilkas," she teased, enjoying the look of consternation on his face.

"Aye, well," Vilkas groused, feeling the bruise on his dignity as deeply as the bruise on the back of his head, "He should still treat his Harbinger with some respect."

"My Harbinger, sure," Farkas nodded agreeably, "When you're doing Harbinger-y things. But right now you're just my brother."

"I yield, I yield," he held his hands up in mock surrender. "Who knew you had such a logical intellect inside that skull of snow."

"Ice," he corrected, deadpan. "My skull is hard, like ice, and snow's too soft…"

"Ah, supper," Vorstag headed them off, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Smell that venison stew. And the best part is…" he waited, looking at Gerhild. She refused to answer and merely sat there, rolling her eyes, so he finished, "…No mushrooms!"

"You don't like mushrooms?" Ralof asked, around a savory mouthful. That was something he'd never noticed about him before.

Vorstag made a face, despite the rich aroma filling his nostrils. "Not after spending months in Blackreach dining on nothing but skeever and fungus. If I never see another white cap, it'll be too soon!"

The conversation around the table was milder after that, everyone concentrating on enjoying the meal. Ralof handed over the posy to Gerhild, who thanked him with pinkish cheeks, asking the serving girl for a small cup of water to keep them fresh.

After they finished, and while the bard Mikael was tuning his lute, Vorstag gave a nod to Ralof and the two of them sauntered off to the bar, supposedly to order another round. Gerhild watched them a moment, taking a sip from her cup, when her eyes trailed away and caught Vilkas staring at her.

"What?" she asked, curious about the odd look on his face.

"I just noticed," he nodded to her mug, "What it is you're drinking. Who would believe it, the Dragonborn a milk-drinker?"

Farkas laughed, thinking it a joke. And it had been intended as a joke. Vilkas, however, wasn't laughing, seeing the tint on Gerhild's cheeks deepen into a full-blown blush. He looked at her, looked at the milk, looked at Vorstag, looked back at her…

All those little hints he'd picked up on since Gerhild had returned to Whiterun…

"Well," he said, thinking to himself, no wonder they want to get married so quickly…

"Well," he tried again, still no more verbose than before.

Vorstag and Ralof returned then, handing off two mugs to the twins. "Ah, Gerhild," he saw her blush, but decided against asking about it, knowing she could handle herself if the need arose. At any rate, he had more pressing business, "Excuse us for a moment. Ralof and I have a few details to discuss." He got an answering nod from her before the two of them headed towards a small table tucked away into a dark corner.

"What's she blushing about?" Ralof asked, sipping at his mead.

Vorstag sighed, having gotten a good idea from the look on Vilkas' face. "I think Vilkas just figured out why we want to get married so quickly."

Ralof choked, spitting his mead onto the table. He cleared his throat as he used his sleeve to wipe up the mess. "You mean…" He couldn't finish the question, but the look on Vorstag's face was answer enough. "No, you couldn't mean… but it's only been a month… six weeks at the most… less since she was cured… how… no, don't answer that," he closed his eyes and held up a hand. Taking a deep breath, he organized his thoughts into some semblance of coherency. "Gerhild's with child?"

"Aye." Damn, he couldn't keep the smugness from his face, no matter how hard he tried. "It, ah, well, wasn't intentional, ya know, just that we had this opportunity for some, er, privacy. Right after she was cured. Then we decided we'd get married before, ya know, starting anything, and sent a letter to you asking you to stand as a witness, and letting Serana know that the cure worked. We started for Whiterun, but there were these bandits holding us up for coin, and she used that Shout of hers that detects life forces, only for it to show her that she was… ya know. So, um, aye, we're anxious to have the wedding, before people find out. Gotta keep things proper, ya know."

Ralof was grinning like a fool. "Congratulations."

Vorstag groaned at the honeyed tone of his voice. "Alright, so you know why this is so rushed. Keep it to yourself."

"Of course." Ralof struggled to wipe the grin off his face. "So, ah, I noticed she's different. Is it because of…?"

Vorstag sighed, looking across the room to catch a glimpse of her, smiling and laughing at something Farkas had said. "No, it was her time as a vampire that changed her. You lose your soul when you become undead," he started to explain.

"Makes sense," Ralof nodded, trying not to think of Serana.

"But Gerhild cheated. At the moment of her death, she exchanged her soul for one of those dragon souls she's consumed. It died, and her soul spent all those months… a part of her, but not her, ya know?" Seeing his lost expression, Vorstag shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Her soul was altered after spending so much time with the dragon souls. She got a… I don't know… a change of perspective, perhaps? She still has strong emotions, but they don't frighten her to the point where she wants to deny them. She can face them now, share them with me. And they make her even stronger."

"Are you sure?" Ralof countered. "Could be, she's stronger, because she has you to share things with her."

Vorstag looked at her again, caught her eye and had to turn away before she saw the look on his face. "So," he hunted around for a change of topic and said the first thing that came to mind, "Where's Serana? She went to get herself cured?"

As soon as the words came out, he knew they were the wrong things to say. "Sort of," Ralof hedged. "When we got your letter, she was… I don't know how to explain it. She wasn't happy, she wasn't angry, she wasn't surprised… She just sort of," he paused to shrug, "And said she had to leave. Went to speak with her mother about the cure. She said, she didn't know if she'd be back or not, or if she'd end up getting the cure, but she wanted you and Gerhild to know she was happy for you, even though she wouldn't be here for the wedding."

Vorstag heard the pain in his voice. Ralof had taken a liking to the vampire beauty, and though their romance wasn't full or physical, and hadn't lasted for very long, that didn't mean the ending wasn't painful. He slapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a rough shake, and got a rueful smile in return.

"Alright, there's something else I need your help with."

"What?" Ralof asked, taking a sip and looking at him over the lip of his mug.

"I want to build a home, for me and Gerhild and the baby, but I want to do it without her involvement."

"You want it to be a surprise?"

Vorstag nodded. "We've talked about it before, about what the perfect place would be, so I think I know what to look for. And I've got a chest full of gold—the money I left her in my will—which she's given back to me since I'm not dead. So I can use that to pay for the land and the materials and labor. Only I don't want people to know this place is where Gerhild lives. She's decided, now that the Thalmor are gone, there's no point any longer in hiding her identity. People are gonna start finding out she's Dragonborn. And the less people who know where this place is…"

"…The less danger the three of you will be in. Aye, I can see that. So, you want me to buy this place for you?"

Vorstag nodded, "And the building supplies, hire the laborers, that sort of thing. I'll provide the gold, but you'll be the face everyone sees."

Ralof lifted his mug. "Sounds like a plan. Here's to pulling one over on Gerhild, and keeping her safe."

"To secret plots," Vorstag grinned in answer, clanking their mugs together.

"So, what sort of place are you looking for?"

Vorstag had to finish swallowing before he could answer. "I was thinking somewhere near friends, people we can trust. Like Riverwood. You know of any place around there, maybe with a cave or something leading into the mountains to provide protection from dragons? It also has to have a view without buildings or people too close, with plenty of trees and some water…"

Ralof laughed, asking rhetorically, "That's not too particular, is it?" His face grew serious for a moment, "Yet I think there just might be a spot…"


End file.
